Elian scurried away from the Training Grounds like a raccoon that had just raided a high-end dumpster. He was sweaty, covered in dirt, and clutching a damp white towel to his chest as if it were the crown jewels.
He ducked into a quiet alcove near the armory and checked his prize.
[System Item Identified][Name: The Prince's Post-Workout Towel][Grade: Rare][Effect: Contains high concentration of Target Pheromones. Sniffing grants +2 Minutes Lifespan. Cooldown: 1 Hour. Durability: 24 Hours before scent fades.]
"Yes!" Elian hissed, pumping his fist. "Portable charger! I don't have to harass him for at least... twelve hours if I ration this correctly."
He buried his nose in the terrycloth. It smelled of cedar, salt, and intense, aggressive male.
'Oh god,' Elian thought, his knees going weak. 'It smells like a locker room in heaven. Why do I like this? I shouldn't like this. I'm a dude. Dudes don't sniff other dudes' gym laundry. This is peak down-bad behavior.'
[System Notification: Stress Reduced. +2 Minutes Added.]
"Worth it," Elian sighed, tucking the towel into his valet jacket. It made a noticeable lump, but he didn't care.
He stepped out of the alcove and immediately ran into a wall.
Well, not a wall. A wall of petticoats and judgment.
It was Mrs. Gable, the Head Housekeeper. She stood with her hands on her hips, flanked by two laundry maids. Her eyes zeroed in on the damp patch on Elian's chest.
"Vane," she barked. "Hand it over."
Elian clutched his jacket. "Hand what over, Mrs. Gable?"
"The laundry," she snapped. "I saw you leave the ring with the Prince's towel. It needs to be boiled, bleached, and pressed. Hand it over."
Elian took a step back. "No."
Mrs. Gable blinked. In her thirty years of service, no valet had ever said 'no' to her. "Excuse me?"
"I cannot give you this towel," Elian said solemnly. "It is... compromised."
"It's dirty," she corrected. "That's why we wash it."
"No, you don't understand," Elian improvised, his brain firing on all cylinders. "The Prince's sweat today was... different. It was the sweat of a warrior. It contains... vital humors. If you boil it, you might disrupt the cosmic balance of his pores."
Mrs. Gable stared at him. "You have lost your mind. Grab him, girls."
The laundry maids lunged.
"Never!" Elian shrieked, dodging a grabbing hand. "You'll never take me alive!"
He sprinted down the corridor.
"Get back here, you thief!" Mrs. Gable yelled, giving chase.
Elian drifted around a corner, his valet shoes squeaking on the polished stone. He was fast—the 'Squirrel' agility Cassian had mocked was coming in handy. But the laundry maids were surprisingly aerodynamic.
He rounded another corner and slammed straight into a solid, unmoving chest.
Oof.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders to steady him.
"Valet," a deep voice rumbled above him. "Why are you running in the palace corridors? Again."
Elian froze. He looked up.
It was Cassian. He had showered and changed into a fresh tunic, looking immaculate and smelling of soap.
Behind Elian, Mrs. Gable and the maids skidded to a halt, panting.
"Your Highness!" Mrs. Gable gasped, curtsying. "Forgive the disturbance. Elian has stolen royal property!"
Cassian raised an eyebrow, looking down at Elian. "Stolen?"
Elian pulled away from Cassian's grip, smoothing his jacket. "Safeguarded, Your Highness. I was safeguarding it."
"He has your dirty towel stuffed in his shirt!" Mrs. Gable accused, pointing a shaking finger. "He refuses to let us wash it!"
Cassian's gaze dropped to Elian's chest. The lump was undeniable.
"Is this true?" Cassian asked, his voice unreadable.
Elian swallowed hard. He had two options: Admit he was a creep stealing pheromones, or lie so shamelessly that they stopped asking questions.
Option B it is.
"I didn't want them to ruin it," Elian whispered, looking down at his shoes with feigned shyness.
"Ruin a towel?" Cassian asked.
"They use harsh detergents, Sire," Elian said, looking up through his lashes. "Lye. Bleach. Rough scrubbing. That towel... it touched your face. It touched your neck."
He pulled the towel out slowly, holding it with two hands like a sacred scroll.
"I could not bear the thought of rough hands treating it poorly," Elian declared. "I intended to wash it myself. By hand. With... with lavender water and silk-safe soap. To ensure it remains soft enough for your royal skin next time."
Silence stretched in the hallway.
Mrs. Gable looked like she had swallowed a lemon. The laundry maids looked scandalized.
Cassian stared at Elian. He looked at the dirty towel. He looked at Elian's flushed, earnest face.
'Please buy it,' Elian prayed. 'Please buy the 'Devoted Servant' act and not the 'Pheromone Addict' reality.'
"You wanted to hand-wash my gym towel," Cassian repeated slowly. "Because you were worried the laundry maids would be too rough?"
"Your skin is a national treasure, Your Highness," Elian said gravely. "I am simply protecting the assets of the Empire."
Cassian let out a short breath. He reached out and touched the towel in Elian's hands. He didn't take it back. He just brushed his thumb against the fabric Elian was gripping so tightly.
[Contact: +5 Seconds.]
"You are a strange creature, Elian," Cassian murmured.
He turned to Mrs. Gable. "Let him keep it."
"But Sire!" Mrs. Gable protested. "It's unsanitary!"
"If my valet wishes to scrub my laundry by hand, that is his prerogative," Cassian said dismissively. "It shows... dedication. Dismissed."
Mrs. Gable turned purple, but she bowed. "As you wish, Your Highness." She shot Elian a look that promised murder later and marched her maids away.
Elian let out a sigh of relief, clutching the towel tighter. "Thank you, Sire."
"Do not thank me yet," Cassian said. "If that towel is not spotless and smelling of lavender by tomorrow morning, you will be scrubbing the stables with your tongue."
"Understood," Elian beamed. 'I have 24 hours to sniff this thing dry before I wash it.'
"Now come," Cassian said, turning toward his study. "The Solstice Festival is approaching. Ambrose has been pestering me about the guest list. I need a buffer."
Elian fell into step beside him, happily tucked into the 5-meter WiFi Zone.
"A buffer against the White Lotus?" Elian grinned. "I can do that. Shall I prepare the 'Royal Headache' excuse, or the 'Urgent Military Matters' excuse?"
"Both," Cassian said. "And Elian?"
"Yes, Sire?"
"If I catch you sniffing that towel, I'm throwing you in the dungeon."
Elian choked. "I would never!"
Cassian glanced back, a smirk playing on his lips. "I saw you in the alcove. You looked like a cat with catnip."
Elian's face went nuclear red.
[System Notification: Target is Amused. Elian +0.5 Hearts.][Current Hearts: 7 / 1000]
"Walk faster, Valet," Cassian commanded.
"Walking, Sire," Elian squeaked, keeping his nose strictly pointed forward and definitely not down at his jacket pocket.